


A Red Serape, At Sundown

by Gwyn_Paige



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, hanzo pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2016-07-30
Packaged: 2018-07-27 16:03:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7624996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gwyn_Paige/pseuds/Gwyn_Paige
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By the time one is distracted by cigar smoke, meditating becomes a lost cause.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Red Serape, At Sundown

**Author's Note:**

  * For [losebetter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/losebetter/gifts).



> First things first, this entire fic was based on and inspired by losebetter's beautiful art, which you can see down below in the text or right here on tumblr: http://losebetter.tumblr.com/post/148014352896/some-color-experiments-ft-mchanzo-oao  
> If you like the art (which of course you do), PLEASE go to that link and give it a like or reblog. Dog is an incredible artist and his work deserves to be seen by everyone.  
> That said, a couple disclaimers about the text: I wrote and edited this thing in the space of three hours, so if there are any glaringly obvious grammar/spelling errors, please let me know. I'd like my work to be technically flawless so you'd be doing me a favor, really.  
> Also, I personally like to think this interaction took place a little early on in Hanzo and McCree's relationship, but I purposefully kept the time and location ambiguous, so believe whatever you choose to, dear readers.  
> And finally, please enjoy.

 

Strangely, he hears Jesse approach before he smells him.

Ordinarily the smoke from his constant cigar is all the warning Hanzo needs, but tonight the wind blows southward, and the jangling of his spurs and shuffling of his boots reaches Hanzo’s ears a few moments before the oaky scent of cigar smoke.

Such a loud man, when he does not care who hears him.

Not that Jesse has reason to care; they are staying at a local watchpoint, small but secure, and Hanzo doubts he would continue his racket should he spot an enemy approaching. Jesse is . . . many things, but unprofessional is not one of them. Given a job, he will complete it. Given a secure area, he will defend it. Given a watch, he will most definitely not stand around smoking cigars and shuffling his boots obliviously.

That is what Hanzo hopes, anyway.

From his vantage point, perched at the top of a high plateau, Hanzo only has to turn his head slightly to see the flash of red serape approach the edge of a rocky outcropping, meters below were Hanzo sits.

Now he smells it; the smoke billowing and wafting upwards towards him, a familiar scent by now. Somewhat spicy, somewhat earthy. Hanzo is not a connoisseur of cigars, but he suspects the brand Jesse smokes is far from the worst-smelling out there. It is one of the reasons he has not yet asked Jesse to stop.

Jesse himself is far quieter now, when his boots are not moving. Hanzo watches him watch the horizon, taking slow draws from the cigar, pensively holding the smoke in and slowly blowing it out, as though he is trying to pace himself.

Jesse has always assumed that his smoking made him attractive, for reasons Hanzo cannot fathom in the least. Perhaps it was the not-so-subtle innuendo, perhaps the “bad-boy appeal” he has heard of in movies and television shows. Whatever it is, it has not worked on Hanzo. The smoking is not bothersome to him, not yet, but neither is it appealing. Even the cigar itself, the image of it hanging from Jesse’s lips, does nothing for him. Not in and of itself.

Jesse takes another arduous pull, and Hanzo wonders if he knows he is up here. Neither of them have said a word of greeting, and Jesse has not glanced up in Hanzo’s direction. He does not know, then. Hanzo should say something, wave, scale back down the cliffside and join him, perhaps.

But he cannot bring himself to open his mouth. The evening air is so still, punctuated only by the puffs of smoke coming from below, and Hanzo does not want to ruin the silence that has descended upon the two of them.

It has nothing to do with the fact that he cannot seem to make his mouth move.

Hanzo looks away, back towards the horizon, though the red serape burns in his peripheral vision. Thirty minutes ago, he had come out here to meditate, to watch the sun go down in peace, and he fully intends to do so, Jesse or no Jesse.

He relaxes his shoulders and places his hands in his lap, and tries to make his mind go blank. It is difficult for him; his thoughts are always far too loud for his liking, and he has never quite mastered meditation the way Genji has. It is no easier now, with the smell of smoke constantly in his nostrils and the sight of the red serape flapping gently in the wind. He wonders why Jesse even came out here; there are security cameras to watch for any approaching hostiles. He did not come to find Hanzo. He certainly did not come to meditate. Did he come all the way out to a cliffside just to smoke?

Hanzo could ask him. He could shout Jesse’s name and pretend he had not seen him until now. He could descend the plateau and ask him what he was doing out here. Jesse would explain as briefly as possible, then make a sarcastic remark, or perhaps a corny joke, and laugh at it. Hanzo would not laugh, but he would smile. Jesse would ask what Hanzo was doing out here, and Hanzo would tell him. And Jesse would say something about how he was glad Hanzo decided to come out here, because now he could see his pretty face, or something inane like that. And Hanzo might laugh at that, for all its absurdity. They would sit together and talk for a while, and watch the sunset. Jesse would probably say something he thought was romantic, and kiss him, and Hanzo would kiss him back, because in all honesty he has never even attempted to search for an excuse or reason to do anything else.

There are those, Hanzo muses, who would not in a million years find Jesse attractive, well-placed cigar or no. Had someone described Jesse to Hanzo before he met him, Hanzo would likely have counted himself among that particular group. A man who dresses like a cowboy, who smokes, who never shaves, whose boots are almost as loud as his mouth. A recipe for everything Hanzo, by all counts of logic and reason, should not be interested in at all.

And yet.

The sun has dipped closer to the horizon, and Hanzo is frustrated to find that his shoulders are tense again. He still has not begun his meditation, and the light is fading fast. Once again, he forces himself to relax (“The point is not to force it, brother,” Genji’s patient yet amused voice says in his mind. “You cannot force relaxation. That is—what do you call it? An oxymoron.”) and tries to ignore Jesse’s presence below.

He manages it for a few minutes, concentrating only on his breathing and the slow, slow movement of the sun in the sky. His focus is broken, however, when the jingle of spurs reaches his ears once again.

Hanzo turns to look, but is nearly startled right off the cliffside when he sees Jesse looking right back up at him. His hat is tilted back, held in place by one hand, while the other rests on his hip; at some point, he stubbed the cigar out. He is grinning, of course, in that crooked way of his. The breeze ruffles his hair.

Jesse tips his hat in greeting. “Hiya, darlin’,” he says, voice warm like the smoke, and it reaches just as far.

For a moment, Hanzo is distracted by the red of the serape against the red of the sunset. Similar colors, but so different. One smooth and distant, the other rough and near. Impersonal and personal; the sunset can be seen by everyone in the hemisphere. The serape, at this moment, can only be seen by the two of them.

The left side of Jesse’s face, as he looks up at Hanzo, is lit by the sunset; the red glow blends with the brown of his skin, making it look as though he is blushing on one side of his face but not the other. As though someone had slapped him there. Or kissed him.

“Did you know that I was up here this whole time?” Hanzo asks, not moving from his perch. The evening is suddenly chill; he wonders if it was always so, and he has only just now noticed.

Jesse nods. “I got an instinct for these kinda things, Shimada,” he says, and laughs. “Plus, your ribbons caught my eye.”

Hanzo brings up a hand to touch the bright yellow ties in his hair. “Yes,” he agrees, not bothering to hide the pleased surprise in his voice. Of course, Jesse could see them. Of course. “They are rather obvious, aren’t they.”

Jesse laughs again. It is scratchy, and too loud, and it echoes off the rocks, and Hanzo loves it.

The sun is almost down now, the sky rapidly growing dark. In the dimming light, Hanzo thinks he sees Jesse wink as he holds out his hand towards him, serape hanging off his arm. “Care t’ come down here and watch the sunset with me, sweetheart?” says Jesse.

His hand, the metal one, hangs there, palm open, fingers splayed. His serape, red and rough, sways in the breeze. His face, tanned, lined slightly, bears a soft grin and softer eyes. The hat shades it, but hides very little. Hanzo has long since memorized it, anyway.

Deftly, with hardly any sound, he descends the cliffside and walks across the outcropping to where Jesse waits for him. The metal of his hand has been warmed by the dying sunlight and Hanzo’s chilled fingers tingle when he takes it. Jesse pulls him against his side, pulls the serape over both their shoulders, pulls a sigh from Hanzo’s breath. He did not realize how cold he was before; it is so much warmer in Jesse’s arms.

They sit together and watch the sun go down, watch the reds fade to violets fade to black, and finally watch the stars come out.

“Gettin’ late,” Jesse murmurs, sometime after Polaris has made its entrance. Hanzo is leaning against Jesse’s left side, Jesse’s arm around his shoulders, the serape securely wrapped around them. He does not want to move, he is so warm, but he knows that eventually they will have to get up and go back inside. They will fall into bed together, and wake up together in that same bed, and go their separate ways as each goes about their daily routines and schedules. In a few days, they will be sent to another watchpoint, or on a mission, or back to Gibraltar, perhaps together, perhaps not. If they are apart, they will send each other texts and video chats, and they will miss each other quietly during lonely nights. But one or the other will always come back, and once again they will fall into a bed together, wake up in a bed together. Hanzo knows all of this with the surety that he knows there will be another sunset tomorrow evening.

In time, they rise, a little sleepily, a little unsteadily; they are not as young as they once were. Hanzo presses a kiss to Jesse’s too-scruffy cheek, for no particular reason. Perhaps, he thinks, it is just because he has no particular reason not to.

With the star-specked darkness at their backs, they walk back inside the watchpoint facility, arm in arm.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Comments are always welcome!


End file.
